


Overpaid Stripper

by clocksworks



Series: Ultra Dave [1]
Category: Depeche Mode
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Inspired by Ultra Dave, Inspired by the Barrel of a Gun video, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27633430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clocksworks/pseuds/clocksworks
Summary: Alan is forced to attend a friend's bachelor party at a strip club. But the scantily-clad girls don't interest him. Instead, he can't take his eyes off the singer of the live band.
Relationships: Dave Gahan/Alan Wilder
Series: Ultra Dave [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2166195
Comments: 15
Kudos: 26





	Overpaid Stripper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapphican](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphican/gifts).



> So the very lovely sapphican was talking about Ultra Dave, and this just appeared out of nowhere.

The man singing on stage was beautiful. He had his body draped python-like over the mic stand, his lips pressed against the microphone as his equally remarkable voice reverberated around the small club. Maybe Alan was biased, but the man’s voice was astonishingly gorgeous, rich as silk, dark and smooth as molasses - but with just enough grit to give it an edge. He sounded like he ought to be singing in front of thousands in an arena, not some sketchy little stripclub in Vauxhall. Alan took a long pull of his vodka tonic, his eyes and ears equally fixated on the singer who _owned_ the stage every time he flicked his hair or batted his dark, doll-like lashes.

“You all right?” Flood nudged him, looking equal parts amused and uncomfortable. They’d all been forced to this dingy little club by the engineers to celebrate Gareth’s stag do. The groom-to-be in question was laughing at the bar and downing shots as two scantily-clad strippers draped a sash around him, the engineers all cheering him on. Only Alan and Flood were still sitting at the booth, drinking uncomfortably and waiting until a polite amount of time had passed before they could excuse themselves.

That was, until the live band had emerged ten minutes ago, led by the mysterious singer who had slinked out onto stage with the elegant grace of a panther. The man wore nothing but a black vest and matching leather pants, tailor-made to hug his slim and lithe frame. A multitude of tattoos graced his muscled arms. His eyes sparkled with glittery blue eyeshadow and mascara, and his longish hair stopped just past his ears - the perfect length for Alan to bury his fingers in when imagining the man kneeling in front of him, his hands on Alan’s thighs and that lush mouth on Alan’s cock.

The man was perfect. Just perfect.

“Charlie?” Flood said again, and Alan blinked. From the raised tone of Flood’s voice, it sounded like he’d been calling Alan’s name a few times. “Are you drunk already?”

“Don’t be daft.” Rolling his eyes at Flood, Alan turned his rapt attention back to the live band. They’d finished their Joy Division cover, and now the singer was beaming and taking deep bows. His gaze flickered towards Alan’s direction - and he _winked_. The bastard had actually winked.

Alan downed the rest of his vodka tonic before gesturing towards the waitress for more drinks for himself and Flood. He was going to need it.

Now the band were introducing their next song, which seemed to be an original instead of a cover. “This one’s called ‘Barrel of a Gun’,” the singer said, gesturing towards his guitarist. “Mart wrote this one, so-- yeah, maybe you want to talk a bit about it?”

The blond guitarist seemed a little bashful as he took the mic, very much at odds with his sexy, slinky frontman. The singer was now bending down to pick up a cold bottle of water, and Alan was treated to the very nice view of that firm, plush arse, his hips just made for Alan to rest his hands on. Then the singer straightened his posture to drink from the bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he took long swallows. All Alan could think about was watching this man swallowing spurts of his come and licking those lush, red lips as he did it. Fucking hell, this singer was a million times sexier and tartier than any of the barely-dressed girls in this club.

“I’m going to call Rose and tell her I’ll be home late,” Alan vaguely heard Flood saying, and he was proud of managing to make himself nod in response at least. Flood shook his head in amusement as he got up and fished out his mobile, clapping Alan on the shoulder as he left.

The band launched into their song, which had a slow, menacing groove and throbbing bassline that sent goosebumps running up and down Alan’s arms. The singer dropped Alan another wink, his hand sliding archly down his chest and stopping just shy of his waistband before he spat out the vitriolic first verse of the song, his lips never breaking contact with the mic. Alan had never felt jealous of a microphone before.

_A vicious appetite  
Visits me each night  
And won't be satisfied  
Won't be denied_

“The band are pretty good, aren’t they?” A bloke was standing next to Alan, beaming as he watched the band. He wore a t-shirt that bore the club’s name and logo - The Sacred Heart - and the word ‘CREW’ was emblazoned on the back. The badge pinned to the front read ‘Daryl’ in a hurried scrawl.

“I’m amazed they’re not selling out stadiums,” Alan frankly told him, his eyes never leaving the singer who was now smiling at Alan like the minx he was.

“I thought so too. Known them all my life, but--” Here, Daryl shrugged. “Always thought they had something missin’, you know? A fourth element, as they say.”

Alan managed to tear his eyes off the stage for a mere second to raise an eyebrow at Daryl. “Aren’t there five of them on stage now?”

Daryl shook his head. “Oh no, mate, the band’s just the guitarist, bassist and singer. The keyboardist and drummer are just session musicians.”

Alan battled with himself and managed to hold out for an astonishing five seconds before he caved and asked Daryl: “What’s the singer’s name?”

Daryl had a knowing grin on his face just this side of sly. “Dave. His name is Dave.”

Someone called Daryl’s name from the soundbooth, so he gave Alan an apologetic salute and darted off, leaving Alan to roll that name around in his head. _Dave.  
  
_

***  
  


Gareth and the boys were now back at the booth, and Alan was doing his best to ignore poor Flood’s long-suffering expression and pointed glances at his watch. Alan couldn’t bring himself to leave, but he didn’t know what the hell he was waiting for. It wasn’t as though he was going to wait for the band to finish playing and then pounce on Dave at the bar. That was tacky, desperate. A man as elegantly sultry as Dave wouldn’t be impressed by such a hammy overture. Fuck, Alan himself wouldn’t either.

It seemed that the band was now down to their last song, the ginger bassist thanking the distracted audience. Interestingly, Dave was waving over to someone at the soundbooth and gesturing for them to come over. Daryl ran up obediently with another bottle of water, and Dave whispered something in his ear. Then they both looked over at Alan, who quickly pretended not to be paying attention and downed the rest of his vodka tonic.

Gareth was ordering another round of drinks when Alan felt someone tap him on the shoulder. It was Daryl, who was grinning like the Cheshire cat as he bent down to talk loudly in Alan’s ear over the music: “Care to meet the band after their set?”

No, Alan didn’t care to meet the band, but he very much wanted to get better acquainted with the enigmatic Dave. “Sure, why not?” he said, keeping his tone and expression indifferent.

Daryl laughed as though he knew better. “They’ll meet you backstage in about ten minutes.”  
  


***  
  


Alan felt less like a bad friend as he made his excuses for Flood and himself to take their leave, despite the disappointed groans and Gareth’s crestfallen expression. “About bloody time,” Flood muttered with a laugh as they made their way out of the club, which was starting to get more and more full with rowdy patrons. “Did you take too much of a liking to the girls or what?”

“Something like that,” Alan said with a smirk, and Flood rolled his eyes when it was clear Alan wasn’t going to say anything else. Flood left first with a distracted wave, calling his wife to let her know he was on the way home.

Daryl caught Alan at the door, leading him to a dark little corridor that was guarded by a hefty bouncer. “Don’t worry Andre, he’s just going to meet the band,” Daryl told the guard who uncrossed his stocky arms and stepped aside to let Alan pass. ‘Backstage’ was really just a set of rooms where girls were running around in their underwear and various costumes, but Alan hardly spared a glance for any of them. His attention was attuned to the last room at the end of the corridor, from which cigarette smoke and male voices were wafting out.

The guitarist and bassist were lounging on battered old sofas, nursing beer bottles and laughing over something. Dave was nowhere to be seen, along with the drummer and keyboardist. However, the laughter died down when Daryl and Alan appeared at the doorway. “Lads, this is--” Daryl’s eyes went wide. “Sorry, didn’t get your name, mate.”

“Alan.” This situation was getting more and more surreal, even hilarious. The band looked highly amused as well.

“Yeah, Alan,” Daryl said with a laugh. “He thinks you lot should be selling out arenas.”

“Oh, cheers very much then,” the ginger bassist said, while the guitarist just gave him a closed, bashful smile.

“Alan, was it?” Dave appeared at the doorway with a can of Coke, his unbuttoned vest displaying his torso, gleaming with sweat. His hips were cocked to one side, his hand raking through his long dark hair and slicking it back. “Saw you watching us, mate.” The glint in his eyes more rather said: _saw you watching **me**_.

“What can I say?” Alan could play it cool too. “You lads put on quite a show.”

“Most of the time, the customers are too busy being distracted by the girls,” the bassist said with a chortle. “So trust me, we appreciate it.”

“You want to go for a drink, Alan?” Dave said suddenly, his dark eyes trailing up and down Alan’s body. Alan suddenly wished he’d worn something smarter than the standard black shirt and grey trousers he wore to the studio everyday. Still, from the hungry look in Dave’s eyes, Alan got the feeling he would have gotten the same appreciative once-over even if he’d worn a potato sack to the Sacred Heart.

“Andy, I’m starving,” the guitarist suddenly said, standing up to make his way to the door. “Let’s go see if the kitchen is still open.”

“Really, Mart? You never eat this late.” The ginger bloke - Andy - stood up as well, following his friend outside. Daryl tipped Dave a salute before following them, closing the door behind him.

Now Alan and Dave were left alone in the dressing room.

“Liked the show?” Up close, Dave’s blue eyeshadow made his eyes - a clear hazel - stand out even more.

“Best I’ve seen in London,” Alan confessed, blaming his four earlier vodka tonics for making him shift a little closer to Dave.

This made Dave beam from ear to ear, his dimples deepening. Alan had really never met a man who oozed so much brazen confidence and dark sexuality, a man so comfortable in his own skin that he didn’t care he was performing in a strip club with long hair and make-up and shiny black nail polish. Plus - that voice, that _fucking_ voice. Alan wanted to soak in it like a bath, let that rich baritone cover him like the warmest and smoothest of velvet cloaks.

“If that is the case,” Dave said, stepping even closer, so close that Alan could see the glitter on his cheeks, the red blush of lipstick still staining his mouth, “would you like to have a drink at my place instead? Have an even closer private performance, perhaps?”

Alan could feel Dave’s fingers hooking onto his belt, leaving no room for anything other than the implication that the performance would be very much horizontal and for Alan’s eyes only. “Would love to,” Alan said with a little grin, just before Dave leaned in and pressed that lush mouth against his.


End file.
